


national security emergency

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:44:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10740093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: “Lovett,” Tommy says, “I really cannot exaggerate how unexpected all of this is.” He waves his hand, intending to indicate his email, but his hand mostly encompasses Lovett, which is truer, he guesses.





	national security emergency

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Into It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10635351) by [threeturn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn). 



> this work is a possible sequel to [nahco3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3)'s [south china sea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10539816) and [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn)'s [Into It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10635351), two polished diamonds that this fic is utterly dependent on. i am so grateful to both of them for writing those fics & being guiding lights in tommyjon agony. if that wasn't enough, grace gave me a million helpful comments that made sure you could ever tell whose body part was whose and val truly made the entire emotional arc make sense and made the whole fic so much better. 
> 
> also, keep it secret keep it safe! please keep this fic out of twitter, lovett is too obsessed with his menchies for comfort.

_Oh put your freakum dress on/Oh put your freaku—_

Tommy looks up from his laptop, started by the sudden silence. Lovett’s going out playlist had been coming from his room for the past half-hour, and he’s usually a stickler about listening to the song until the end. Especially for Beyonce. 

Lovett’s getting ready for a date, his third one in the past two weeks. It’s none of Tommy’ business, because they were never anything but a few random hook ups, and it was fun, and it’s over now. Which is fine. Lovett made it clear that’s what he wanted when Tommy asked him out to dinner and the reception, not just a random blowjob, and Lovett left before he woke up and then brought a guy home a few nights later. Tommy knew it wouldn’t last when it started, so he’s fine.

A few second later, Lovett comes out of his half-closed door. He’s wearing black boxer briefs and the red sweater Tommy got him for Hanukkah last year, and he flops dramatically onto the couch, head landing a few inches from Tommy’s thigh, feet propped up on the armrest.

“Tinder is worse than Grindr, because on Tinder guys pretend to be real people, but underneath it all they’re really just headless mirror dick pics that think they’ll be senators one day,” Lovett informs him.

Tommy doesn’t have a Tinder or a Grindr, but sometimes Lovett calls Embassy Row his Tinder when he’s forced to go to state events and see, as he describes it, Nordic women giving Tommy their numbers so they can kidnap him and make him their First Husband in some cold social democracy. He laughs, though, because it’s a good joke, then says, “Yeah?”

Lovett starts talking, the almost manic pace he gets when he’s ranting about something that he doesn’t want to reveal he actually cares about. “Like, this dude just fucking texted me an hour before our date that he was ‘swamped with emails’ and could we push it back to the weekend! Fuck you, Bryan-with-a-y. You work for _Brookings_. I work for the _White House_. You should be begging me to go out with you so your stupid policy papers about fucking municipal transit reinvigoration could ever make it into Obama’s words and then maybe they’d actually matter. Also, it’s nine on a Thursday, who’s checking their emails? At least give me a better lie.” Lovett looks up at him, still on edge.

Tommy lifts his hand up, and then carefully puts it back down on his lap. “I’m organizing my inbox at nine on a Thursday,” he says.

Lovett says, “Yeah, but you’re not prioritizing that. If I asked you to go out with me you’d say yes.”

“I would,” Tommy says, too quickly, then makes it into a bit. “Do you wanna go out? There’s a Patriots game, we could go to the Irish pub where you don’t reach the counter.”

Lovett pinches him, hard, on his side, and Tommy laughs at his offended look. “Don’t pretend you like that place. You’re not Favs, you’re a blueblood WASP. Your grandparents are probably still getting over that you have to treat Ireland like a real country now. Anyway, I never wanted to go out, I just wanted to get fucked. Bryan-with-a-y seemed like he’d be easy, and I just wanted to get out of my head because it’s been hell at work.”

“Because of the energy speech?” Tommy asks. Lovett scooched up the couch to pinch him, and now his hair is just barely brushing Tommy’s thigh. Tommy’s hand is on his own thigh, his pinkie finger dangling an inch or two from Lovett’s ear. 

“Yeah, God, I know you write about boring stuff all the time, but I honestly think nothing could be more boring than this. I’ve been thinking about solar power subsidies in my sleep. Bryan-with-a-y sent a decent dick pic, so I thought it’d at least be fun enough to make me forget about fucking kilowatts for twenty minutes.” Lovett sighs dramatically, and Tommy looks down at him. The sweater looks good on Lovett, and Tommy’s suddenly, pitifully happy that stupid Bryan doesn’t get to see him in it.

“Interested in converting potential energy to kinetic energy?” Tommy asks, drawing on the last of his high school physics knowledge to avoid thinking about Lovett wanting to — do stuff, with some think tank rando.

Groaning dramatically, Lovett headbutts him in the thigh and doesn’t move away. Tommy’s in sweats from college, worn thin from the wash, and if he concentrates he can almost feel Lovett’s curls through them. He thinks about his own head resting on Lovett’s thigh, the first time they did whatever they were doing for a little bit, in Tommy’s office, and he thinks about what it would be like to have Lovett’s head in his lap for real, to be able to play with his curls, still a little damp from his shower. 

He gets up, careful not to bump Lovett’s head. “I’m getting a beer,” he says, already moving towards the kitchen. “Do you want one?”

“Yes!” Lovett calls out. “But not a gross Sam Adams. Get me a Blue Moon. Maybe with a lemon? Did you buy lemons? I think I used the last one for a tequila shot last weekend.”

Tommy takes his time in the kitchen, slicing the lemon, getting himself a Blue Moon too. He tells himself to be normal.

When he comes back, Lovett is playing Candy Crush on his phone, cursing at the chocolate. He’s been stuck on level 127 for months now, and Tommy knows he’s in a worse mood than he wants to admit if he’s torturing himself with this stupid level. He hands Lovett his beer, and Lovett lifts his head up expectantly, as though Tommy should slot in and be his human pillow. He’ll otherwise have to sit up to drink his beer; Tommy does. He doesn’t tense when Lovett drops his head onto his thigh. 

Tommy’s halfway through his beer, scrolling through Twitter on his phone, half-listening to Lovett yell at the game, when Lovett throws his phone down in disgust. He ran out of lives, then. 

“Honestly, if this is how bad I am at Tinder in DC, imagine how bad it’s gonna be in LA. Everyone there is like Favs, but minus the gap tooth and the personality. I won’t even get enough matches for anyone to ghost me,” Lovett says.

“Maybe you should stay in DC then, you’re a hot commodity,” Tommy suggests, carefully joking. Lovett is -- he came home, a few nights after the reception, with some guy who looked like JFK, kept Tommy awake until two.

“Not according to Bryan-with-a-y,” Lovett says.

“But according to other people,” Tommy says. Lovett’s looking at him thoughtfully, and Tommy wishes he hadn’t made that joke. He’s getting reckless, the combination of Lovett talking about LA and the memories of the last three times getting to him, making him dumber than usual.

Lovett reaches up, traces over the words of Tommy’s Obama for Senate t-shirt. “It’s pretty amazing,” he says, “how good you are at knowing what you should do. It’s a good thing you’ll be Secretary of State one day. Probably while I’m a tragic has-been in Hollywood, like a funnier but less beloved Aaron Sorkin, but one who only made bad Sorkin shows.”

Tommy tells him, “I never know what I should do.” He swallows, and Lovett tracks the movement of his Adam’s apple. 

“Yeah, right,” Lovett says. “You managed to work for Obama when he was a _senator_. Now you read classified information all day long and never tell anyone any of it. I’m sure your ten-year-plan is coming along nicely.”

“Lovett,” Tommy says, “I really cannot exaggerate how unexpected all of this is.” He waves his hand, intending to indicate his email, but his hand mostly encompasses Lovett, which is truer, he guesses.

Lovett takes another sip of beer, almost a chug, and then sits up. His legs are crossed, and he’s totally facing Tommy, worrying at his lip. “You should fuck me. Otherwise I’ll be all cranky, and I’ll fuck Bryan-with-a-y this weekend, and it’ll be late and he’ll be loud and it’ll ruin your sleep cycle, and then you’ll wear the wrong fun socks and be off your game, and then you’ll accidentally call the head of the German intelligence agency Bryan, and then he won’t tell us information because he’ll be mad at you, and then we’ll have a national security emergency and it’ll be my fault but it’ll be your fault really for not sleeping with me.”

“I don’t think that’s -- a good idea,” Tommy says. He’s trying this new thing where he avoids breaking his own heart, but he’s not convinced.

“Oh, uh, okay” Lovett says, face pinched up, turning away from Tommy. He retrieves his phone from the ground, opens up Candy Crush again. He still has to wait five more minutes for his next life.

Tommy watches him for a second, hunched up shoulders and vulnerability badly covered by sulkiness. He thinks logically about how much more broken his heart could get. He thinks about how it felt to wake up to an empty bed the next morning, but he also thinks about how he’s prepared now, he knows to expect it. He thinks about how Lovett’s going to leave, soon, and Tommy will probably never live on the same coast as him again, and how dumb it is to pass up a single opportunity to touch him. 

He reaches out, clasps Lovett on the shoulder. Lovett tenses, a little, and Tommy says gently, “Hey, I mean, if it’ll prevent a national security emergency. Maybe we should.”

Lovett turns back to him, a little wary but won over as always by someone committing to the logic of his bit. “We don’t want a congressional investigation to find out how easily it could have been avoided,” Lovett agrees.

“Great point,” Tommy says “I don’t want Lindsey Graham to be demanding why I failed my duty.” He cups Lovett’s face, the ache in his chest steady but his smile growing. Lovett leans in, slow and a little suspicious, and Tommy meets him in the middle.

Tommy figures he should be used to this by now — he and Lovett have kissed a fair amount — but every time he feels the first press of Lovett’s lips Tommy’s heart stops a little. Tommy kisses back, one hand in Lovett’s hair, feeling it soft and damp and against his own skin, fingers threaded through his curls, palm just resting on the warm back of Lovett’s neck. Lovett makes a little noise when Tommy bites his bottom lip gently, so Tommy does it again, a little harder. Lovett slides clumsily toward his lap, and Tommy helps him along, taking the beer out of his hand and putting it on the coffee table, guiding his leg over Tommy’s hip, all while nibbling at his jawline. 

Lovett’s thighs are bare, and Tommy can’t resist running his hands up and down them. Tommy’s bending down so Lovett doesn’t have to push himself up, so he can settle into Tommy’s lap, and Tommy feels every shift as he grips Lovett’s thighs and traces his thumb against where Lovett’s boxers end. 

Tommy thinks about buying that sweater for Lovett, seeing it while picking up some boxers at Brooks Brothers, unable to stop thinking about how nice the dark red would look against Lovett’s pale skin, how soft the cashmere would be. He ended up going back a week later to buy it, wrapped it in plain wrapping paper and stuck it in his closet for two months until he gave it to Lovett for Hanukkah, the one night that week they both got home at a reasonable hour and Lovett lit candles from a little menorah his mom had sent and Tommy made latkes. Lovett put the sweater on immediately, wore it the whole night and fell asleep on Tommy’s shoulder on the couch. 

Lovett shifts so his ass is against Tommy’s dick, and Tommy stops thinking about anything but the present moment. He kisses him more firmly, one hand sliding up Lovett’s back to run his nails back down, and Lovett says “yes” into the kiss and grinds down on Tommy. Tommy’s hand almost spans the width of Lovett’s back, pinkie landing in the small of his back, just brushing his waistband. Lovett’s arms are around Tommy’s neck, palming his shoulders, pulling him closer. It’s a lot, all at once, so much heat, Lovett fitting perfectly onto Tommy’s lap, all of the feelings he’d been carefully not feeling for two weeks rushing back with a vengeance.

Leaning back, Lovett breaks the kiss, and Tommy follows him. “Wait,” Lovett says, and Tommy pulls back, taking a deep breath, his first since Lovett asked him to fuck. Lovett pulls Tommy’s shirt off and tosses it over his shoulder, then runs his palms over Tommy’s abs.

Tommy kisses the side of his throat, right at his pulse point. “So much better than Bryan-with-a-y,” Lovett jokes, a little breathily. Tommy growls, unable to stop himself, unable to be normal, and bites down hard. Lovett’s laugh turns into a moan, and Tommy thinks, _I want you to forget anyone else exists._

He slides his hands under Lovett’s ass, squeezing a little, and Lovett whines. He adjusts his grip, making sure it’s stable, and then stands up, pulling Lovett pressed against him. Jon’s legs wrap around his waist automatically, even as he says, confused and a little outraged but distracted, “Tommy!”

“Yeah?” Tommy says, feeling Jon’s dick rub against his stomach. 

Jon says, “You caveman,” but he’s also grinding harder, and it’s so good Tommy has to kiss him as he walks towards his bedroom, just barely avoiding tripping on the end table. 

Tommy carries him to his bed, cupping his head as he puts him down. Jon laughs, giddy, and doesn’t unwrap his legs from around Tommy, yanking him down so he lands on Jon. Tommy has his hands planted on either side of Jon, trying not to crush him, but Jon keeps pulling until his bare chest is pressed against Jon’s sweater. He starts pushing it up, feeling each inch of skin against his front as it’s revealed, and breaks the kiss so he can pull the sweater up and off Jon. He tosses the sweater off to the side, and looks at Jon, spread out underneath him. Tommy always forgets how pale Jon is, how surprisingly solid his shoulders are, and he takes a moment to just soak it in, run his hands up Jon’s side all the way from waistband to neck. Jon gasps when he cups his neck, thumb on the hollow of his throat, and Tommy presses down, just a little bit. Jon squirms, and Tommy can feel his dick move against his thigh. Tommy kisses him again, not moving his hand away, until Jon pulls away and gasps, “Lube? Condom?”

Tommy could happily spend a lot longer kissing him, but he knows that’s not what Jon wants. He sits up to get the stuff from his drawer, thinking hot-faced about ducking into a CVS in the middle of his run a few weeks ago, miles away from home, unable to stop thinking about whether he and Jon would go past unexpected blowjobs in random rooms and whether he’d need to be prepared. Jon’s tugging at his pants, and Tommy pulls them off. “Boxers too,” Jon demands, and Tommy complies while watching Jon shimmy out of his own. 

Jon starts turning over, but Tommy wants to kiss him, wants to make sure Jon can’t forget that it’s him. It’s sad but, fuck it, everything he’s doing is sad. He grips Jon’s shoulder and pushes it back down onto the bed, sliding in between Jon’s thighs. Jon spreads his legs to accommodate Tommy, and Tommy grabs a pillow from the other side of the bed and slips it under Jon. Tommy can hardly breathe, looking at him stretched out in Tommy’s sheets and smiling up at Tommy. He slicks up a finger and kisses Jon again, and Jon makes needy noises at him. Tommy feels Jon’s hand slip down his stomach, towards his dick, so he grabs Jon’s wrist, loose enough that Jon could shake it off, and says, pleads really, “Wait.”

“For what?” Jon whines, squirming but not moving his wrist out of Tommy’s grip.

“Till I’m inside you,” Tommy says, feeling his face heat up. He’s not like Jon, can’t talk about sex to anyone who’ll listen, but he wants so much to be the only one to get Jon there, to feel Jon come on his dick and know it’s all because of him.

Jon bites his lip, looking surprised, and nods. Tommy holds his wrist loosely over his head while he starts fingering him, watching Lovett’s face carefully to see what feels good. 

When Tommy has two fingers in Jon, Jon whines, “Fuck me, fu-uck me, cmon.” Tommy kisses him and scissors his fingers, feeling Jon relax around him. He slips in another finger after a few minutes, and Jon groans theatrically, “Finally.” 

Tommy bites his shoulder in reproach, and then settles back on his heels to watch. Lovett whines again, kicking Tommy with the leg wrapped around him, and Tommy smacks his thigh, lightly. Smirking, Jon says, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Tommy-boy.”

“What, because I’m a repressed WASP?” Tommy asks. He shifts Jon’s leg onto his shoulder and smacks his ass a little harder, watching Jon shudder through his whole body. 

Jon wriggles around, bratty, and says, “Well, you do blush a lot the next day when I have loud sex. Reasonable assumption.”

“Maybe because I’m thinking about how much better I’d be.” It’s — uncomfortably true, and probably weird, but he spanks Jon again, harder, and Jon moans and closes his eyes and doesn’t seem to clock it. He starts fucking his fingers into Jon again, harder now, wanting to feel him.

“Cmon,” Jon says, “cmon, cmon, what are you waiting for, I’m easy, Bryan would have come by now, just fuck me.” He’s panting and his hair is sweaty, lips all red from kissing and biting, belly rising up and down fast. 

Tommy smacks him for the Bryan thing, annoyed Jon can still remember his name. He pulls out, though, and rolls on the condom, kneeling between Jon’s thighs as Jon raises his eyebrow expectantly.

It’s silent when Tommy first pushes in, moving so slowly, Jon’s hands opening and closing on the bed. Tommy laces his fingers through Jon’s, feels him squeeze his hand as Tommy pushes all the way in. 

Tommy still can’t quite believe this is really happening, that he’s fucking Jon and Jon’s looking up at him with such want. He leans down to kiss him, can’t bear not to, and ends up mostly breathing into his mouth, Jon’s hand clutching his hip.

They’re still for a long moment, and then Jon yanks at his hip, says, “Move, Jesus, now,” and Tommy does. He fucks Jon long and steady, how he imagined it, lying in his bed across the wall listening to Jon make noises he’d tell Tommy the next morning were fake. But it’s so much better than he imagined, because he didn’t imagine Jon’s heel digging into his back, his hand in Tommy’s, his quiet gasps into Tommy’s neck.

Shifting a little, Tommy finds a better angle, and Jon says “Fu-uuuck,” long and low and broken.

“Yeah, babe,” Tommy gasps out. “So good for me, cmon, so good.” He starts fucking him in earnest, bed knocking against the wall at a steadily increasing pace, and Tommy thinks about being on the other side of that wall. But Jon’s underneath him, real and flushed and lovely, and Tommy slides his hand under Jon, just needs to be touching him everywhere.

“Fuck, lemme — I need to come, cmon, please,” Jon begs, and Tommy kisses him to soothe him. Jon cries out when Tommy wraps his hand around Jon’s dick, barely even jerking him off, just adding consistent friction. He runs his thumb over the head of Jon’s dick as he pushes in, and Jon digs his nails into Tommy’s back and chokes out an “Oh” as though it was punched out of him.

As much as he wants it to last forever, Tommy can feel his need to come building up, so he tightens his hand on Jon’s dick, jerks him off faster and bites at his jaw, saying, “Babe, come for me, I wanna see it.”

Jon does, quieter than expected. It’s a bitten-off gasp and a full body shake, and Tommy fucks him through it. When Jon’s stopped shaking, Tommy starts to pull out, but Jon growls out, “Stay,” as if it’s the only thing he can say. So Tommy does, and Lovett’s pliant and loose-limbed underneath him. It’s easy to find his rhythm again, harder and a little slower than before, and Tommy fucks him until Jon says, “I want to feel you, god, Tommy,” and Tommy can’t quite handle Jon saying his name like that, laughter and desperation and what sounds like fondness.

He buries his face into Jon’s neck, after, and Jon strokes wide sweeps over his back. Eventually he pushes himself onto his elbows, searches Jon’s face for a guide to what he should be feeling.

Jon’s eyes are closed, but they open to see Tommy looking at him, and Tommy flushes, a little. “I’ll get a washcloth,” he says, and Jon makes a noise when he pulls out. Tommy kisses him in apology, then pulls off the condom and rolls out of bed. His legs feel a little wobbly, but that’s fine.

In the bathroom, he throws out the condom. He takes a deep breath, looks in the mirror. He’s not going to be weird like last time, not going to try and tell Jon how he feels, even obliquely. Not going to freak him out and make him leave before Tommy wakes up. He’s gonna be chill, and cool, like Jon’s looking for. He runs the tap until the water is perfectly warm, soaks a washcloth, and goes back to bed.

Jon is stretched out, starfishing across the entire bed, and Tommy fits himself next to him, carefully wiping off his stomach, keeping quiet.

“You have such hidden depths,” Jon tells him. “Do you keep your secret kinky sex knowledge in the same mental file cabinet as your state secrets?”

“Yes,” Tommy says. “There’s a special folder for the intersection.”

Jon laughs and kisses him, and Tommy kisses back, relieved he was normal. “Thanks,” Jon says, “this was really fun. You’re, like, the hottest person who would ever agree to sleep with me, so I’m really going to need this memory in LA.”

“Keep you warm through the long eternal summer?” Tommy asks.

Jon gives him a chuckle, and looks up at him. “You’re the best roommate I’ve ever had,” Jon tells him, “so I have to leave before you get sick of me.”

“Well, you’re my favorite roommate, so you could wait a little longer,” Tommy says.

Lovett squeezes his hand, once, then lets go. “It’s nice you think that you think that,” Lovett says.

They’re both drifting off, eyes closing, arms and legs brushing, when Lovett says, sleepy and almost incoherent, “You’d tell me if the nuclear bomb was heading towards LA, right? I’m not important enough now to know, let alone after the White House, so you gotta look out for me.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, watching his eyes drift shut. He tries to memorize his face, in case Jon’s gone again in the morning. Jon’s breathing gets steadier, and Tommy says, “I’d save you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/veryspecificfantasies) on tumblr, screaming, as always


End file.
